To Foster A Bond
by LadySilver
Summary: An unusual request makes Melissa face what her son has become.


_A/N: This was written as my entry in the MTV fanfic contest. Tremendous thanks go to my betas lastingopposite and fountainxxpenny. Writing this story came down to the wire, and if it hadn't been for their help, encouragement, and nagging, the story never would have gotten finished._

**To Foster a Bond**

When Melissa came downstairs, she was greeted by a trail of wet, muddy clothes that led down the hall. She sighed and rolled her eyes at the mess. So much for getting a couple of hours to relax before work. From the upstairs she could hear the shower running, no doubt Scott getting cleaned up for the day. Though, if he were just waking up, that didn't explain the mess that he had thoughtlessly left behind. She sighed again, with more exasperation, as if he were standing nearby and would take the hint to pick up his own laundry.

Bending down with a groan and a muttered "teenagers," she swept up the first item, then the second. She followed the trail into the kitchen, where she nearly tripped over Scott's mud-caked gym shoes that had been kicked off near the kitchen table. Muddy footprints identified that he'd come in the back door, which he'd failed to shut completely. A cool draft blew in, making the radiator tick and pop with the extra effort it needed to exert. A cereal bowl with the damp remains of cornflakes clinging to its interior sat on the kitchen table and a half-drunk glass of milk-and-mystery-crumbs sat on the counter. The cereal box lay on its side on the table, spilling flakes onto the surface.

A fallen flake crunched under her shoe as she surveyed the room. "Scott!" Melissa yelled, heedless of the fact that the shower was still running. "What the hell got into your head?" The next words, "I didn't raise you to be an animal!" were on her lips, and she stopped.

Scott's wet clothes were still clutched to her chest.

She half-collapsed against the table, sagging under the weight of what she'd been about to say. It was an old reprimand, one she'd used over the years whenever Scott hit a lapse in his normally courteous nature. And Scott would be able to hear it over the water.

Scott, who had become an animal despite how she raised him.

She finished falling into a chair, its legs scraping against the floor under her sudden, misaligned weight.

All the distance that had been building between the two of them over the past few months, her sense that her son was pulling away too fast and too soon, and now she knew why. She'd been so busy with work, with trying to keep the household running, that she hadn't been there to protect him. And he'd become something out of her nightmares.

The coffee pot clicked on. Melissa jumped at the noise, then glanced up at the ceiling. Could Scott hear that too?

She bit down on her knuckles, fighting the urge to start crying. The aroma of brewing coffee started to fill the room, its scent making her stomach gurgle and protest. It seemed wrong for a thing she normally found comfort in to keep existing after the way her world had turned over.

That image of the monster's face was burned on the back of her eyelids. She saw it every time she blinked, every time she stared too long in one direction. In the half-darkness of the jail, she had been confronted with inhuman yellow eyes and teeth of a predator on a face she once had known better than her own. She realized in that moment what a stranger Scott had become. Now every interaction was tainted with doubt, the most common of bonds stripped away. He wasn't human. How could she know what he was thinking or feeling? How he would act? When he would become dangerous?

Distantly, she felt the wet clothes in her arms soaking through the scrubs—pale pink with bright yellow ducks on it that she'd chosen because of how they cheered her up—her chest and arms growing damp and cold. A shiver ran down her back, though from either her thoughts or the open door, she didn't know.

Her roving fingers found a tear in the fabric and she touched it, tracing the outline of ragged cloth with an eye toward whether it was reparable. The cloth around it was stained, dark and stiff like—

She folded the shirt over, hiding the stain and burying the thought. She didn't want to know. Scott, her Scott, never got into fights. Her Scott wouldn't come home with blood on his clothes. Only, the person upstairs wasn't her Scott anymore, was he?

"Melissa?" she heard. "Is everything OK?"

She jumped, and the clothes fell from her arms to land with a splat on the kitchen floor. Sheriff Stilinski was standing in the open doorway. His attire of jeans, a blue golf shirt, and gym shoes announced that he wasn't there in professional capacity, which made it all the more curious that he was there at all. Though, she supposed they were also long overdue for a conversation. His brown hair was windblown; she reflexively touched her own dark curls that she hadn't bothered up put up yet, smoothing them.

"I did knock," he said, indicating the door, as if the plank of wood would verify his assertion. "Do you mind if I come in?"

"Fine," she responded, too fast, not sure which question she was answering. She closed her eyes, took a steadying breath. "I'm fine," she said, again. She stood up, glad that she'd gotten dressed before coming downstairs. "Come in." A glance at the coffee pot showed that it had finished brewing. "Coffee?" she asked, heading to the cupboard for a pair of mugs without waiting for an answer.

"You know me too well," Stilinski responded with a small smile that tore at her because she didn't feel like she knew anyone anymore, much less well. He ran a hand over his head and down the back of his neck. "I hope I didn't interrupt. I was on my way to the station to pick up—" He stopped, shook his head. "Anyway, I wanted to catch you before work. Is this a bad time?" His gaze traveled between the stains on her outfit and the pile of clothes on the floor, an invitation to accept the out he was providing clear in the half-step he took back toward the door.

Melissa poured the coffee and automatically added the cream and sugar that she knew he liked before ticking her head in invitation toward the hallway and the front of the house. "Not at all. Besides, chances to talk to another adult are always appreciated." She smiled and he smiled back, though there was a wariness to both, a discomfort because of all the questions that night at the police station had raised that no one ever seemed to find the time to address. Carrying the mugs, she led him toward the living room and its much more comfortable seating. That the move also left behind the evidence of whatever Scott had been up to was an added bonus.

The living room was warmer than the kitchen, the position of the radiator more efficient for dispersing the heat. She liked the room because of that warmth and its overall quiet, though she rarely had chance to use it. Stilinski took a seat on the couch, accepting the mug of coffee that Melissa handed him before she sat in her favorite arm chair. They chatted emptily for a few moments, neither of them having much heart for pleasantries. Melissa had so much she wanted to ask him, yet had no idea what he knew, what he remembered. She wished she had someone to talk to about the real issues in her life, but even the online parenting forums on difficult teens had a stunning lack of information on mythical creatures. Instead, she and Stilinski commiserated about traffic and the rising cost of gas.

The small talk quickly petered out and an awkward silence fell between them. Stilinski peered down into the rising steam from the cup gripped too hard in his hands. "So, I got a phone call yesterday," he started, after a moment. "I'll admit it confused me at first. I mean, I'm happy that you put me down as a reference—" He stopped at the sight of Melissa shaking her head.

"Reference for what?" she asked. She took a sip from her own mug, an eyebrow arching as she looked askance at Scott, who had appeared in the doorway, his hair still wet and skin glistening from the shower. At least he'd bothered to throw on a pair of jeans before coming downstairs. He stood half-behind the lintel as if trying to sneak out of a room he'd entered by accident. At her look, he faded back more, his shoulders crowding up. He couldn't have announced his guilt any clearer if he'd used words. "Scott?" she asked, trapping him with a parental glare.

Scott shuffled his bare feet, his eyes going wide in feigned innocence. "What? Did you want something, Mom? I thought I heard you call?" His eyebrows twisted upward at the flimsiness of his excuse. "Earlier?" he amended. "Because I have homework…." He waved his hand toward the stairs and the unlikely possibility that he was going to spend Saturday morning doing homework.

"Do you know what the Sheriff is talking about?"

Scott pressed his lips together and glanced away. He'd always been such a terrible liar.

Stilinski sighed, long and tired, the sound of someone who knew better than to be surprised. "Let me guess? Stiles put you up to it." He shook his head, not even waiting for a confirmation from Scott. "I should have known when the pieces didn't add up." He took a sip of the coffee, wincing a bit at the temperature. Turning his attention back to Melissa, he explained: "Someone submitted an application on your behalf to the County to be a foster parent."

Melissa jerked her head, summoning Scott into the room and directing him to sit on the couch. He hesitated only a second before giving in, settling himself in the farthest corner, huddled up next to the arm.

"A foster parent," she echoed. The thought was absurd. Most days, holding things together for her and Scott was all she could manage. Some days, she wasn't sure how well she was succeeding there. She set her mug down and wiped her too hot hands on her thighs.

"It's an unusual case," Stilinski continued, "which is part of why I was so surprised to get the call. I'd never known you to express any interest in fostering." He frowned, apparently remembering that she still hadn't. "Scott? Why would Stiles want your mom to take on Isaac Lahey?"

Melissa's mouth opened at the name. She'd met Isaac, of course. He and his father had been familiar faces in the ER, and the nurses had been trying to get Social Services to open an abuse file on the boy for years, but there'd never been enough of the right kind of evidence. She'd also met him, more recently, when he'd shown up with Scott to examine the body of their friend Jackson after he'd "died" on the lacrosse field. In the emotion of the moment, she hadn't thought to ask about Isaac. Her suspicion was confirmed with Scott's stammered explanation.

"I-I thought it would be a good idea. We—" He glanced at Stilinski, then turned his attention to the couch where he started to pick at a loose thread along one cushion seam. "We have a lot in common."

"Stiles said pretty much the same thing," Stilinski added, sounding surprised, as if he'd expected the answer to make far less sense. "He said that you'd understand Isaac better than anyone." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "I know he's in your grade and he's on the lacrosse team. So are half the boys at Beacon Hills. What else do you have in common?"

Scott swallowed hard at the question. "Just…stuff," he replied.

"Stuff," Stilinski repeated. "You and Stiles must have scripted that answer."

A flush of embarrassment spread up Scott's cheeks.

"It would be a lot to take on," Melissa interrupted, jumping in before Scott caved and told Stilinski what it was clear he didn't already know, what Scott presumably had reason for not wanting him to know. "We both know the challenges of parenting one teenager." _One _human _teenager_, she added to herself.

Stilinski rolled his eyes, his challenges with parenting publically known, before returning to seriousness. "Isaac was cleared of all suspicion in his father's murder, if you're worried about that," he said, after taking another long swallow of coffee.

Melissa schooled her expression quickly, certain that he'd volunteered the information because of some look of horror that she'd been unaware of. That she _had_ been worried about Mr. Lahey's murder was beside the point. How could she expect anything less of a werewolf? She'd seen the movies. More importantly, she'd seen the ferocity with which Scott had attacked that other boy. Jackson. Who was also a monster.

She dropped her head, busying herself with swirling the contents of her cup around to even out the cream.

"I know his history will present challenges…" He sounded thoughtful, like he thought the placement would be a good idea.

A moment of panic flooded through her and she bit her lip. "I'm going to have to think about it," she blurted out.

She could feel Stilinski eyeing her, waiting for more. Finally, he drained back the last of coffee and set the cup down on the table. "Of course," he responded. With a glance at his watch, he stood up. "I do need to get down to the station, so just give me a call when you know…what you want me to say. Scott."

"Sorry to surprise you, Mr. Stilinski," Scott apologized.

"Don't worry, Scott," Stilinski answered. "I know who the mastermind for this plot was, and I will be having words with him."

Scott got up and walked with Stilinski to the front door, opening it for him and seeing him out before returning to the living room. He came fully inside the room this time, his arms dangling awkwardly at his sides. "I was going to tell you," he started. "I mean, ask you. It's just…He doesn't have any place to go. He—" He let out a deep breath, his face crinkling in the way that meant he wasn't telling her the whole truth. With as bad as was what he had told her, Melissa didn't think she wanted to know what Scott could be holding back. Scott looked down at the floor then back up at her, his brown eyes pleading. "He doesn't want to be a runaway, and you know the system would be bad for him. Too much can go wrong."

Melissa got up and walked to the window. The blinds were drawn, the slats dusty. It looked like she hadn't been doing such a good job there, either. "He's a werewolf too, isn't he?" she asked. She already knew the answer. Though she hadn't seen Isaac's face the way she'd seen Scott's, his involvement in what had happened with Jackson told her all she needed to know.

"You know he is," Scott answered. "That's why he needs you." He slipped across the room with quiet, confident steps that weren't like him at all.

Melissa mulled over the words, but didn't respond. He was asking too much. Expecting too much.

"Mom," Scott started. He reached for her hands with his and it was all she could do not to pull away. He must have noticed her flinch because he aborted the gesture and instead tucked his hands in his front pockets as if to forcibly restrain himself from reaching for her again. Instead, he caught her eyes with his.

His expression was so determined, so sincere. Seeing it took her back: how he had pleaded with her to sign the permission slip for lacrosse despite his Asthma that almost certainly guaranteed that he'd never step foot on the field; how he had quietly insisted that he be allowed to pick up a part time job so that she wouldn't have to be responsible for his gear.

Longer ago: how he would come downstairs during her late nights studying in nursing school and demand that she go to bed; how he would beg to open _just one _present on Christmas Eve because he'd never get to sleep otherwise; how he would wrap his arms around her neck when he came home from Kindergarten and tell her that he wasn't going back because he missed her too much.

She felt tears coming into her eyes and blinked them back.

Scott was still standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, waiting for an answer. He had grown up so much when she hadn't been paying attention. He'd _matured _so much. How much of that was because of what he'd been dealing with?

"OK," she said. "OK. We can make it work."

Scott's mouth spread into a tentative grin. "Really?"

Melissa nodded, a physical punctuation to convince herself as much as him. "Really." She glanced out the window. The Sheriff's car was long gone. She was pretty sure he would have arrived at the station already-Beacon Hills wasn't that big, after all-but she decided to give him a few more minutes, just so she wouldn't catch him breathless. Giving him a heart attack wouldn't do anyone any good.

Scott ducked in fast and planted a light kiss on her cheek. "Thanks, Mom." He turned before she could respond and picked up the empty coffee cups, carrying them back to the kitchen without even being asked.

She watched him go, feeling disappointed with how she'd behaved. Her son had gone through so much and, when she finally found out, she'd misunderstood what she was seeing. In her shock, she had missed the obvious: Scott might have become a werewolf, but he hadn't changed at all.


End file.
